|
12 february 2001 |
sometimes, i still sing I have travelled a great deal, and met countless people on my adventures. I have only seen others. Glanced at them. Caught their gaze from a window, or passed them by on a busy sidewalk. A few years ago, an old friend of mine and I took a walk. He stopped, looked me square in the face and said, "Kim, you notice everything . How can you stand it?" I wouldn't have it any other way. When I was fifteen, I spent a good bit of time walking or running. I lived in a small town, and could cover a good bit of it during a healthy run. One day, I got to Church Street and turned left. A small, elderly woman with yellowed, shoulder-length hair in a flowery day dress was getting her paper. She had bright eyes and a quick step, even though it was really hot that day. I was pooped. She stopped me. At that point, I wasn't opposed to taking a break. Looking back on it, I now know that this woman didn't quite have both oars in the water, if you know what I mean. She was the sort who, if you passed by, would stop to chat. She grabbed her paper, and began to do just that--chat. I was invited onto her porch, where she showed me her mailbox. Yep, nice mailbox! Look on the mailbox , she said. Every week, I tape a different church bulletin to my mailbox. This week, it happened to be the bulletin for my church, Black Mountain United Methodist. I go there! I told her. And that, friends, pulled the keystone from the floodwall. I was in for a full afternoon o' yakkin'. There's no other way to put it--the lady got plumb giddy when I told her where I went to church, because it turns out that she was once the choir director there. She wouldn't have it any other way; I was coming inside for a glass of lemonade. No matter that visions of Mom danced in my head. Don't talk to strangers, dear! Don't take lemonade from people you don't know! Church bulletin or not! Sorry, Mom. But she was a fun stranger! In I went. So far, so good. Though a somewhat eccentric woman, her home was a cozy, tidy place. No weird smells. No dust noodles on the blinds. Jesus stuff everywhere. The typical home of a woman named Bluebird. Bluebird sat us in the parlor (raise your hand if you have a parlor...mm-hm...just as I thought.) She then began to tell me her story, or as much as would fit into an afternoon. Bluebird began, of course, with photos. Near the bay window was a small hope chest, which she opened to reveal armfuls of a life. Music scores, photographs, choir books, and religious memorabilia. Years of it. Back in the day, Bluebird began the first childrens' choir at Black Mountain United Methodist church. She and her husband had lived in the bigger house across the street, and couldn't have children of their own. Well, Bluebird fixed that it in a jiffy. Not only did she organize the first childrens' choir in the Swannanoa Valley, but she also opened her home to other kids for music lessons. On the baby grand piano that sat next to me in the parlor, the fingers of countless kids danced down ivories. Real ivory. And they sang. And then she asked me if I sang. Sometimes. Well? She sat at the piano and asked if I knew this one. A sweaty mess with a long run home, I was. But yeah, I knew that one. So we sang stuff. She even taught me a few piano licks, which I can't much remember now. But I clearly remember lots of sunlight through her parlor window. And joy. Before I left, Bluebird pushed something into my hand. It was a paper towel that she asked me not to open until I got home. Fair enough. I thanked her for inviting me in on that hot day, and for her hospitality. I promised her that I would return, a promise I made good on several times until I graduated from high school and moved away two years later. I returned to Black Mountain a couple of years into college. After church one day, I walked down to Bluebird's house to see if she was there. The house, however, had been sold to new people, who told me that she had taken a bad fall a few months back. They were nice folks, though, and gave me the address of the retirement community in which she now resided. That was the last time I saw Bluebird. She wasn't doing too well there. No one had combed her hair into the formerly-bouncy curls in a long time. Her room was yellowed, not sunny. There was no piano in the corner. Jesus, however, was everywhere. Before I left, I kissed her gently on the cheek and thanked her for her hospitality. I then pressed a paper towel into her hand and asked her not to open it until I left. It had served me well. I thought it best to return what she had loaned me. Seven pennies. For luck. |
